


Sick

by White_Rabbits_Clock



Series: Winter [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Sick John, Sick Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 04:14:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7344481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Rabbits_Clock/pseuds/White_Rabbits_Clock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock get injured</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick

SHERLOCK

 

He has been injured, and you are displeased. You pace, worried. He was not supposed to get hurt. He was not supposed to show any trace of his outings with you. And now, he is injured. Not just by any normal weapon or Cast, but by your own father’s shadow-hands.

Cornelius Holmes, of course, has no idea that the companion you have been traversing all England with is indeed his very own prodigy, pulled from Flanders and placed in a closer circle than most get. 

The two of you were in WhiteChapel, investigating the death of a peculiar nurse there. Cornelius was not supposed to know, but he did, indeed, find out. You hid John’s face, but ice and snow, when battling against living shadows, does not always protect what is behind it.

You, unfortunately, were injured too. It was a bad one, and made you less observant. As dark veins ventured away from the radius of the wound and blood bled black in the dim night, your deductive powers were abandoned to save your life. In the arms of your ice, the two of you disappeared into the night.

The journey must have been hard on him, you think. The high altitude, mixed with the air of early spring, does no good for a man who can grow plants. You supposed he must have been shivering something fierce. You suppose frostbite must have been salivating at how close John ventured near it.

But you were distracted, so you simply whisked the both of you into the ragged, wild wood and into the run down, desolate manner. There you collapsed, only to wake up hours later to find that the man was truly a doctor at heart, because you were almost completely healed, while he sat by, frost on his eyelashes, buried under some four layers of furs and cocooned in sickly looking plants. 

You didn’t even have to look to know he was running a fever. You berate yourself now as John himself lays in the bed, surrounded by bedclothes and suffering from his own wound, chest drawing in thin, pained exhales.

Never once did you notice he was injured. Never once did you open your eyes.

The habit has cost you much over the years. 

Your throat tightens. You could lose him to this. His selflessness, and your selfishness, might just do him in better than any bullet or war. Your eyes settle on the starburst scar over one shoulder. What did it feel like, obtaining that wound? How much pain did John endure?

It must have been quite a lot, you think, because the gunshot wound triggered his plants, which rose in great, carnivorous, thorn-clothed men that swallowed the enemy and their screams. It must have been a magnificent sight, you think.

You do not know how long you sit there, staring at him, taking in the hair on his chest, the scar on his shoulder, dabbing the sweat from his skin, wishing you had simply paid attention. 

Near dawn of the third day, his eyes open, and the plants that had been growing seemed to stir to life, covering the walls, the chair, the furnishings and even you yourself. Dark blue irises latch onto silver ones. A thin mouth smiles.

“So you do care.” You roll your eyes.

“No, it just wouldn’t do to have to bury my own assistant.” the smile gains teeth.

“Funny.” His face falls then, reverting back to its trademark expression of concern.

“Why does your father wish you dead?”

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that took forever to push out. Let me know what you think!


End file.
